For now, I struggled to adapt to the daily routine and all the rules. Guards shone their flashlights in the cells late at night and early morning, startling me awake after I’d finally fallen into a restless sleep, shivering under my thin blanket. They did hourly rounds and formal counts, the first at five in the morning. Then anyone who worked in the kitchens was sent down while the rest of us rushed for the showers. After breakfast, people left for work, went to programs, or hung out in their cells and the activity area. You got paid a little bit for working, five or seven dollars a day. The maximum-security side prisoners had to remain locked in their cells unless they were working, but every hour they were given a chance to go to the activity area. After dinner we were allowed out in the yard if the weather was decent.
You were expected to work or participate in the programs, but I spent most of my time pacing my cell, sleeping, crying, or writing letters to Ryan—I was given a few pieces of paper and a pencil, which wasn’t much more than a stub. We hadn’t been able to have any contact for over a year, and then only at trial, so I was desperate to hear that he was okay. I didn’t have stamps yet and was waiting for the canteen to open in a few days. I hoped my dad had been able to send money—everything seemed to take forever to process in prison.
After my arrest, I’d sworn to my parents that I was innocent, and I was pretty sure my dad still believed me, but my mom was a different story, especially since the trial. My dad was allowed to send some personal things, like CDs and some photos, but I’d been warned it would also take a while before the prison approved them. I’d asked for some of Ryan and our family, especially ones of Nicole. He’d paused on the phone when I asked for those, then agreed, his voice quiet. Mom had spent hours going through all our albums after the murder, crying, but I’d avoided even walking close to Nicole’s photo in our house. And I’d hated seeing her yearbook photo on every news show, in every newspaper. But now, a year and a half later, I needed to see pictures of her, needed to remember everything about her, how she smiled, what she liked, what she didn’t like, terrified that she’d slip from my memories, needing to keep her alive, somehow, in some way.
My institutional parole officer decided I should be in substance abuse programs because I’d been stoned the night Nicole was murdered, but I insisted I didn’t have a drug problem and refused to attend. The parole officer was a small man, only a few inches taller than me, with tiny hands. I wondered if he liked the power he had over women in prison, if in the outside world they laughed at him.
“This is part of your assessment,” he said. “If you don’t participate in your correctional plan you won’t be able to reduce your classification level. It could also affect your future parole eligibility.”
“I’m innocent,” I said. “My lawyer’s filing an appeal—I’m getting out soon.”
He made a note, his expression blank.
*
In the evenings I started to walk the track, around and around, passing the other women in their groups or the odd solitary woman running. Then one day I also broke into a run, zoning in on the feeling of my feet hitting the ground, each thud, thud, thud drowning out the constant thoughts in my head, the endless despair. I tried not to think about how much I missed Ryan and Nicole, tried not to think about my sister’s empty room, all her belongings untouched. I’d never lost anyone I cared about before, not even a pet, and I was struggling to understand death, the permanence of it, the staggering thought that I would never see my sister again, never hear her voice. That she no longer existed. I wrestled with thoughts about heaven, about life after death, about where she might be now. I couldn’t grasp that someone could just be gone. I’d also never experienced violence before and didn’t understand how someone could have done those terrible things to my sister, couldn’t stop thinking about how afraid she must have been, how much it must have hurt.
Each memory was a fierce blow, the grief wrapping so tight around me I couldn’t breathe. And so I ran, over and over again.
My roommate and I didn’t talk much. The morning after Pinky grabbed my arm, she gave me a brief rundown of the routine inside. Then her expression turned sly, her eyes narrowing.
“You got parents sending you money? I need a few things from the canteen, just until my old man sends money in a couple weeks.”
“I can’t buy you anything. Sorry.”
We held eyes and I knew she was trying to intimidate me, but she was also nervous about it, her gaze darting around to see if anyone had heard us—no one was in the hall, and the women in the cell next to ours were loudly arguing. I had a feeling she’d timed it that way so she could save face if I turned her down.